wrought

Not everything we write is wrought
Not everything we find is sought
And not all that we buy is bought
Though the gold be sold for

And in Each one is side or slaught
The better which we might be taught
The sons or daughters of the naught
Who fossilize the cradle

Don't write me no more letters now
I have no eyes to read them
Don't send me flowers in a bough
I have no heart to feel them

And if my skin should fail me now
If my bones should break beneath
The onslaught of the waves of fate
I trust in you my teeth